


Portrait of a Lady

by Profoundly_Poetic (LinguistLove_24)



Category: British Royalty RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Politics, American Politics, British Politics, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Inspired by Real Events, Multi, POV First Person, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 05:59:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17823191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguistLove_24/pseuds/Profoundly_Poetic
Summary: "Uncommonly beautiful, she used her eyes to draw people in, dropping her head forward to greet you while lifting her eyes upward. She radiated life and a sense of vulnerability that I found heartbreaking. Although there was little time to talk during this visit, I came to know and like her." - HRC, Living History.





	Portrait of a Lady

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm alive and decided to come back to writing for the moment. I hadn't planned on it, but this little piece was in my head, so I wrote until it was out. Just a one shot as I can't really commit to a lot right now for a host of reasons, most prominently my mental and physical health. This is a little AU/What-If type scenario loosely based off some of the details of the crash that took Diana's life as well as a snippet from Living History where Hillary talks about her. Since I admire both of them I went with it.
> 
> Obviously it's fiction and is not intended to offend anyone.
> 
> The points of view switch between Diana and Hillary.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Portrait of a Lady**

 

_August_ _1998_

 

  
  
_Diana,_  
  
_I realised recently that it will soon be a whole year since that fateful night in Paris and I wanted to take a moment in the midst of everything to say that I hope you are well. I don't want you to think only of all that you have suffered and lost, but to remember too how strong you are and all you have survived. The cruelty of our world is overflowing, but I do hope that the darkness bestowed you - particularly within the span of this last year – has at times relented; that all the good you still have to live and breathe for is held in sharp contrast and highlighted. Beyond how loved you undoubtedly are by your children, you are admired and thought after the world over. I have grown to admire you greatly despite that our encounters have become infrequent, our correspondence brief. I needed you to know that from this corner of the world all the way across the pond, warmest wishes are being sent. Don't hesitate to call should you find that you need to, but I do think that a proper visit is in order. I should make a point of setting one into motion, if you're up to it?_  
  
_Do let me know._

_All my love,  
_

_Hillary_

**_~*~_ **

 

“Mum, how can you even read that properly in the dark?”  
  
I fold the letter – read and reread several times over since its arrival not more than a month prior and which I could probably recite by rote – holding it close to my chest beneath the bedspread as Harry saunters into my room and pulls back the curtain. He looks apologetically at me when I fail to hide a grimace. I still experience frequent headaches and sensitivity to light.

 

“Sorry,” he winces. “I always forget.”

 

“S'alright, love,” I tell him softly. “I should be getting up anyway.”

 

 

I shift my aching lower extremities to the edge of the mattress and gingerly stand up. They'd bothered me mercilessly the night before and I'd hardly slept, but with the extent of the injuries I'd sustained a year ago, I knew I was lucky to be walking at all.

 

“This weather is my favourite when I don't have to be out in it,” Harry says to the open space, watching heavy rain pelt against window's glass as I stop directly behind him and squeeze his shoulder. His fourteenth birthday has come and gone and I'm certain it won't be long before he's as tall as I am, if not taller.

 

“Me too,” I smile. “Where's your brother?” I'd not seen William since he'd popped his head round my door jamb to say goodnight before retiring to his own room the previous evening.

 

“In the shower,” my youngest tells me, and I nod. “Is Hillary still flying in to see you later?”

 

“As far as I know. Did you talk to your father?”

 

“Yeah, I hung up before I came in here. Do I have to go with him?” His young eyes are soft, innocent, questioning, pleading.

 

“Yes Harry, you do,” I sigh. “Unless there's a legitimate reason you don't want to?”

 

He shrugs and shakes his head to the negative in tandem. “I just want to stay with you,” he says simply. “I've missed you. I love Dad, but I like your flat. It's cosy.”

 

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth and swallows my whole face before I can stop it. I had worried about the boys' ability to adjust after the fallout following my very public divorce from their father, and that worry had intensified tenfold in the aftermath of the previous summer's accident. I had been particularly apprehensive when it came to their feelings regarding the decision to leave my quarters at Kensington Palace for ones much more modest. Over and over again, the resilience of my children, their grasp of and appreciation for life as it exists beyond the scope of royalty, continued to delight and surprise me.

 

“I'm glad,” I tell him, pulling myself from muddled thoughts and coming to. “I've missed you too, both of you. But I can't keep you from your father.”

 

We'd been under each others' feet multiple times for Harry's birthday celebrations, and finally, I found, were in a place that went slightly beyond an ability to be cordial to one another. For all he'd put me through, Charles had given me these boys, who were fast becoming men. I wouldn't take away his right to help shape them into good ones.

 

“Okay,” Harry relents. “But can I come back during the week sometime? When William is busy or wants to stay with Dad? Please?”

 

My heart seems to somersault within my chest, and I'm unsure how I could possibly deny him this. So much attention is forever being paid to William and his eventual ascension to the throne, that I sometimes worry Harry feels left out or overlooked.  
  
I have learned that no matter which corners of the earth I run to - whether I live by modest means in humble abodes as though I am a commoner or more lavishly in palaces like the royalty I used to be – my problems and my pain will follow me. I am not and can never be what constitutes society's ideals of normalcy.

 

I have learned too, that as much as I still often yearn for it, I don't necessarily need to be. The pace of my life has changed considerably since it was nearly ripped from me. There is a sense of beauty in its fragility. The love and the men I should have always devoted the entirety of my attentions to came through me, have always walked step for step with me since the days etched in my memory when the nurses swaddled and handed them off to me.

 

“Nothing would make me happier, my love,” I declare, looking directly into Harry's face as it quickly becomes alight with pleasure. “I'll discuss it with your Dad. We'll make it happen.”  
  
“Yes!” he shrieks. “Thanks Mummy.”

 

“Dad's here.” My eldest walks into the room, a steaming mug of coffee in his outstretched hand. “So's Mrs. Clinton.”

 

“Now?” I question, my voice rising. I take a pull of the hot liquid William has extended me as though it will have a positive effect. “It's early.”

 

“Oooooh, Mum's not ready for the First Laaaa-dee,” Harry singsongs. “Worried she'll look prettier than you?”

 

“Shut up, Harry,” William laughs. “Have you even packed for Dad's yet?”

 

“Oops,” Harry says, looking like a deer caught in headlights before booking it out of my room and across the hall to his own.

 

“Turd,” William mutters once it's just the two of us.

 

“William!” I scold.

 

“Well!” he says defensively.

 

“He's not wrong,” I speak up, after silence has fallen and enveloped us for a moment. “I've not showered. I'm sure Hillary will be much more put together than me.”

 

“You look fine,” William assures me, smiling softly. “She's waiting outside with Dad. I let them both through the front gate.”  
  
“God, I better not leave them too long. Will you go out and buy me some time to change?”  
  
“Of course,” William nods. “And yes, I made extra coffee.”

 

“You're the best,” I wink.

 

 

**~*~  
**

“This is cute,” I say, settling into an oversized armchair in Diana's sitting room. “Cosy.”

 

I meant it. It wasn't Kensington by any stretch of the imagination, but not the slums either. Spacious without being excessive, it was naturally bright with windows in each room. There were enough of them for her and the children –even a few friends and acquaintances – to co exist happily under one anothers' feet. The most obvious selling point to me was that it was private. Surrounded by lush vegetation, gated, secluded just enough that the media vultures just might leave her alone, though I had a feeling they still didn't. Not always.

 

“Thank you,” she says softly. “That's nice of you to say. I would have met somewhere more public, but it was my weekend with the boys.”

 

“I completely understand,” I smile. “Don't worry about it.”

 

I watch her nurse what must be at least her third cup of coffee for a moment before following suit. As she had done the first time I'd met her and so many instances after, the Princess drew me in with her eyes, perhaps without even knowing it. She had eyes that housed universes and told stories; some that would probably see me weeping if she disclosed them to me out loud.  
  
“How are you feeling?” I ask, penetrating the silence that had befallen.

 

“I have my days,” she tells me honestly. “Some are better than others. But I'm alive.”

 

_But I'm alive._

 

For the first time in a long time, I sensed that she actually wanted to be. She was not completely free of the shackles put upon her by The Firm or the constraints of royal life regardless of her valiant attempts to leave such things in the rear view. She did, however, appear as secure and certain of herself as I'm sure I'd ever seen her. As someone who crossed the line of distant admirer, stepped slightly over it into the category of friend – however casual in nature that friendship was – I really did want the best for her.

 

_But I'm alive._

 

None of us could believe that she was, upon learning details of the crash. The man she was seeing at the time had died next to her, probably instantly. She'd mentioned to me in one of her letters that she remembered calling out to him that night, his name falling off her lips as she faded in and out of conciousness, surrounded by wreckage.

 

“Have they been okay lately?” I ask softly. I could only hope and pray that her heart had not been plagued by the same kind of visceral ache as mine.

 

“Most of them,” she nods. “William and Harry make it easier. They're great help and comfort to me when they're here.  
  
  
“Survivor's guilt was a huge thing for a while. It haunted me. I had to re learn how to move, how to live, how to cope.  


“Therapy does wonders. Does more for me now than it ever did when I was a royal.”

 

“Really?” I'm genuinely surprised by this admission. “Why do you think that is?”

 

“I'm more open to it, probably,” she muses thoughtfully. “More receptive to their advice. More willing rehash some things I didn't want to rehash before and admit my faults and my own hand in certain things.”  
  
I nod. “Good for you.”  
  
I had heard just as the world had, the things she had dealt with in the limelight. Infidelity, loneliness, mental illness, self harm, bulimia. If my stint as First Lady had taught me anything, it was that outsiders are ruthless. I felt an incredible sense of connection to this woman in so many ways and carried such a deep sense of compassion for her. I saw every day in my work and my travels the urgent need for us to be much gentler in how we moved through the world and affected each other.

 

“And the press tends to leave me alone a little more,” she adds. “I'm grateful for that.”

 

“I wish I could say the same,” I say dryly.

 

“I'm sorry,” she winces, feeling genuinely awful, I can tell. “This has been all about me. I should've asked...”

 

“You've heard about the mess back in my neck of the woods, no doubt,” I say, referring to the philandering ways of my husband, now blown up and spread across every headline and major news outlet, all our dirty laundry out to dry and shoved callously under a microscope, judged and re-judged, hashed and rehashed, over and over and over again.  
  
I never wanted to discuss it, had never even wanted to believe the truth of it. I had stood by my husband like a devoted wife and been repaid with humiliation. I hated hearing about it, talking about it. There were days I hated Bill's scent, his voice, his very presence taking up the space I occupied. There were days I hated myself for my loathing him, nights I laid awake wanting and waiting to be flush against him again. Here in the UK, the atmosphere was different. Even if Diana had declined my offer of a visit, I'd have come. I needed space, air I wasn't wholly accustomed to breathing.

 

I was entirely glad she had not declined. I could talk about it with her without becoming so quickly irate. Something was to be said of her soft voice, compassionate nature and demure disposition. She was easy to open up to. Perhaps because I knew her heart too had broken and bled this way.

 

“I'm sorry this has happened to you,” she says, like everyone else has, clearly at a loss. “That it is happening.”

 

“Me too,” I say flatly. “I needed to escape.”

 

“I know the feeling,” she answers on exhale. “More coffee? I can lace it with something stronger if you want.”

 

“That would be great,” I nod, handing her my cup. “D'you need a hand?”

 

“Not really,” she answers, “but you can come if you like.”

 

**~*~**

 

**“** Harry wants a dog,” Diana tells me as she licks remnants of coconut crème pie from the tines of her fork. I've lost track of how long we've been standing in her kitchen, but we'd wordlessly decided to drink our spiked cups of coffee leaning against the counter, and at some point or another during our run on conversation she'd pulled several sugary confections from the refrigerator.

 

“Really?” I laugh. I feel light headed. It's been a while since I've had alcohol, and though it isn't much and is mixed with coffee, it's seemed to hit me. “What kind?”

 

“He goes back and forth,” she says. “Right now he's got his heart set on a boxer he wants to call Lola.”

 

“I've not had one, but I do love their sad faces. You should get it for him. Dogs are good for kids.”

 

“They've some at his father's, but he wants one here, too. I'll probably indulge him.”

 

I stick my own fork into the pie and bring it up to my mouth. “Do you think you'll ever date again?” I inquire softly, unsure whether I should have asked.

 

“Right now I just need to focus on me and my kids,” she says. “But I'd like to.  
  
“I deeply wanted another baby for a while, but I'm not sure about that now since everything that happened. There are days I still don't feel very well. Not like my old self, anyway.

 

“If I do bring someone new into the fold I'd like not to fuck everything up this time.”

 

“Diana,” I murmur. “You didn't.”

 

“Oh, I did,” she insists. “It wasn't all Charles' fault. I put a lot of blame on him for a long time, but I was a mess.”

 

“He still should not have done what he did to you,” I say.

 

“And Bill should not have done what he did to you,” she counters. “But men are what they are, sometimes. Disappointing, in my experience. Charles always loved someone else. I'm glad for what came out of our marriage, but I was never that someone.”

 

“I'm sure he still feels affection for you.”

 

“I feel that for him, too,” she says forcefully. “He's not a bad person. He's a good father. He loves the kids. I don't always necessarily like Charles, but I will always love him. We're very different people.”

 

“I get that. Angry as I am with Bill right now I do love him, and he did give me Chelsea.”

 

“Do you want to stay with him? Do you think you can?”

 

“I'm not sure,” I say thoughtfully, honestly. “It depends on the day. I know he's remorseful, he's begged for my forgiveness more than once in the midst of all this, but sometimes I can't stand to look him in the eye.  
  
“I love him, and I want him, but sometimes I hate him. Sometimes I'm so hurt I can't breathe without feeling like I have fire in my lungs.”

 

“Hill,” Diana coos, setting down her fork and stepping toward me, embracing me, holding me. “You have a right to be hurt. His actions are his cross to bear and his alone. I'd caution moving too quickly, but I'd also advise against throwing in the towel. I wished so many times that my husband would grovel and beg and plead and ask to fix it, ask me how I felt.  
  
“I've not had near as much interaction with Bill as some people, but fundamentally I think he's decent. I could always see that he loved you. I can't make your decisions, but you'll know what's right when it's right, I promise.”

 

“Did you?” I ask, wiping my eyes on the back of my sleeve. “Did you know?”

 

“I still catch myself wishing the boys had their family together,” she tells me. “That I had a husband, a love that I could feel in the depths of my bones. But yeah, I knew. I knew when it was time to leave. I knew I couldn't just hold on to him for the children. We both would have lost ourselves.”

 

“You're young, beautiful, strong,” I smile. “You've got a lot of life left in you yet, that love will come.”

 

“I don't know,” she sighs. “I'm a bit cynical. Resigned. I've a lot of baggage.”

 

“Honey, we all have something, I promise you. Any man who can't overlook or embrace that can't call himself a man.”

 

She smiles at me, and I'm reminded of something Jackie Kennedy once told me.

 

_“Being married to powerful men comes at a cost.”_

 

She had known that better than anyone, paid a price nobody should have to.

 

In the aftermath of unspeakable tragedy, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis had emerged and shown the entire nation what it meant to be the epitome of grace, resilience and class. The portrait of a lady.  
  
In her own way, with her own flair, on her own terms, Diana had done the same.  
  
I only hoped that in time I could make them both proud.


End file.
